


Manic

by sira89



Series: Interlude [3]
Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 11:27:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9179551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sira89/pseuds/sira89
Summary: Even is manic, and he knows it. Even is manic, and all he can think about is Isak.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, part of the Interlude series. Hope you like it? Again, just a snippet :)

It’s been coming like claws in his back for a couple of weeks now. The first bit, Even thinks he’s just happy. He should know now the difference between happiness and contentment. For him, contentment is normal; happiness is mania. Maybe those aren’t even the right definitions, he doesn’t fucking know. What he knows is that he has to be careful. Emotions are different for him than with other people. _Normal_ people.

He’d read the newspaper and thought “this is going to be a great fucking day!” No, not sarcastically. He’d gone to the coffee shop and made the barista smile. He’d laughed at the kids running circles and dancing in the grass. He found ten new films he wanted to dissect. He’d texted his mom how much he loves her.

See, this first bit is the hardest to pinpoint. Because it is truly, wholeheartedly, _him_. He would do this, if he was being himself. And that’s what makes it so hard sometimes. He can’t ever fucking trust his mind. Is he having five good days in a row? Or is this the start? Sometimes it gets too much for him, constantly trying to unravel his emotions. Sometimes he just wanted to fucking _live_.

He’s in between the first bit and the second bit right now; at least he knows. The second bit is telltale. He does things people should not be doing. Not if they are well. He thinks he is a bird, he thinks he can survive a bomb, he drags a knife across his skin and watches the blood bead. He drags it to his lips and tastes life. He learns a new language, he learns a new love, he blinks wide at the sunrise after he’s snorted round after round all night. Except… he hasn’t learned a new love since Isak. There’s something disjointed there, something he can’t get past. But he’s fucked plenty. He’s gone off his medication so he can fuck days and weeks and until that glorious want passes. And then he realizes it’s doesn’t matter who’s there, it’s just the mania he’s feeding.

Even is twenty years old and he’s been through the downs and ups enough to recognize them, and know where he’s at. He’s on medication now, which helps a lot. Dulls a lot. On medication, he usually gets a little high and a little low, but doesn’t often reach the extremes. He’s grateful for that. He’s a little high right now. And he likes it. He always does, but he’s been mastering his mind to keep taking the pills anyway.

Isak’s been flitting across his mind for a couple days now. Even wishes he could let him go. It’s been nearly two months since he’s seen him. He doesn’t go to any of the Nissen parties anymore, not even the ones his old third year classmates put on, to bring everyone back together. Not because of bad memories. Because of Isak. 

Nevertheless, Isak’s in his dreams and his thoughts and his fantasies. Worse now, that he’s on the edge of being manic. He thinks about Isak spread out underneath him, soft and plaint and moaning. He thinks about the way Isak sucks cock, looking up through his lashes, eager to please. The way Isak’s skin turns deep red under his fingers when he spreads him to look at where they’ll be joined.

Even might be manic, but it doesn’t matter. He has to have him again.

He calls Isak. He knows he’s being selfish; he knows. If he were as he usually is, _regular_ , he would hate himself. He would hate that he’s putting himself before Isak, he would hate that he wants and wants and will fucking _take_ without considering the consequences. Without considering that he will never actually be able to fucking be who Isak needs him to be. He would want, but he wouldn’t call.

Isak doesn’t answer. Isak doesn’t answer and it doesn’t bother Even, he just opens his jeans and tentatively touches himself. He knows Isak will call back. As fucked up as it seems, Even never calls Isak. But there is still love there ( _more than you fucking know, Isak_ ) and Isak would never purposefully ignore Even’s call, not when they’re like this. Isak, so different than Sonja, has become so like her, in some respects. Always on edge about what Even might do.

Except that Even loves him, desperately. It’s hard to put what Isak needs first, and what they both want second.

Isak calls back twenty minutes later, voice tense. “Hey.” He says its lowly, but it’s more of a question, an uncertainty. Even is pulling on his dick, and he tells him so. Isak pauses for a few beats, but he responds with “yeah?”

Even says yeah, and _will you come over_? He doesn’t remember exactly what Isak says, because the sound of his voice is too familiar and yet unheard for so long, his hand starts pumping up and down his dick at the richness of it. But he knows he’s coming.

Time kind of blurs together when Even is like this. Unless something is sharp, needing to be remembered, it just moves and sinks and breathes with Even. Which is why, when suddenly Isak is in his bedroom, hat backwards with lips parted and staring, Even knows _this is it_. It might be the first he’s ever had Isak like this. More likely it’s the last. The thought makes something ugly rear in his chest, and it makes him push Isak down roughly on the bed. There’s a darkness at the edge of Even’s mind encouraging him to devour Isak while he can, while he has him under him. It says he won’t be there again; take what you can, take what you have.

Isak just looks up at him uncertainly. Hazel eyes, blonde wavy hair, the softest of skin. Been fucked a hundred times, will never look anything less than innocent.

Even mouths at his neck, his chest, and at his sensitive hips. He listens to Isak keen when he sucks at the juncture between his thigh and his sex. He licks at his balls, but won’t take his cock in his mouth. Not yet. He waits until Isak is full on whining for it, and then he takes him in and looks Isak in the eyes while he does it. He sucks up and down and loves it, watching Isak grow unsteady under his hands. Isak moans and writhes while Even holds his hips in place and looks up at him, keeping his lips soft and suctioned. He waits until Isak is close before he swipes at Isak’s slit, gathers his pre come and swallows; gathers some more and then moves up to tongue into Isak’s mouth. It’s something that Isak usually does to him; chin wet, skin splotchy pink, tongue salty.

They are together now, chest to chest, as their most intimate moments have always been. Even’s fingers are wet with lube, sinking into Isak. The tightness around his fingers makes Even pant with arousal, makes Isak’s mouth drop open. Even nips at his collarbone, hard. He wants to see himself there tomorrow. Isak’s never minded possessiveness; Even has seen marks not made from himself a few times now. He sucks at Isak’s neck, bruising. He licks into his lips and then returns to his neck, making a path down his chest. Even would mark him everywhere, if Isak wouldn’t start to notice.

Even can feel Isak start to open and ready for him. He wants to look at the place his fingers are working to spread wide. If they were still together, Isak would blush deep, but he would allow it. Even would push his knees up high and look at the pink hole accepting his fingers, start scissoring him. He’d play with him like that, pushing in and out so fast or so slow. He’d tease and tease until he felt the need to fill.

Instead, tonight Isak whispers “Im ready, Evi. I’m ready.” It’s shaking and vulnerable, and Even can’t deny him. Can’t tease him or make light. He positions himself just right, centered between Isak’s thighs, and takes the back of his head in his hand; Isak’s jaw in his right. The look in Isak’s eyes before Even pushes in is something he’ll never in his life be able to recreate. It’s something no artist has been ever been capable of, Even thinks. That vulnerability, that love, that sacrifice.

But he forgets that when they begin to move. It’s a song, it’s a movie; it’s a split second of life in the history of time. It’s so fucking beautiful; the sounds they make, the way their skin slides together, the way Isak throws his head back. The way Isak looks at him with eyes wide and lips parted while Even thrusts into him. The way Isak starts to frown but keeps his eyes on Even’s when he’s just about to come. The way his muscles tense, his fingers dig in, his eyes roll back and Even can’t _not_ come with him.

Isak is so spent after, he lays limp in bed for hours after. Even traces patterns in his skin the whole time. He can’s sleep anyway. He daydreams about flying to the moon, running through the sea, and maintaining a stable love with the sweetest boy he’s ever met. He whispers into Isak’s cheek about how he’ll love Russ. He makes Isak’s lips curve up with dirty jokes and witty puns, spoken quietly in the darkest light.

He says “I miss being next to you Isak. I miss feeling safe.” But only after he has studied the length of Isak’s eyelashes, measured the angle of his cheekbone. Only after he has measured his breaths.


End file.
